


The Mercy of the Fallen

by sahiya



Category: White Collar
Genre: Appendicitis, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Loneliness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-01
Updated: 2011-12-01
Packaged: 2017-10-26 18:04:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/286317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sahiya/pseuds/sahiya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A few weeks after the events of "Countdown," Neal is on the outside looking in - and in desperate need of help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Mercy of the Fallen

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the "ostracized from society" square on my [h/c bingo card](http://sahiya.livejournal.com/652589.html#cutid1). Many thanks to Fuzzyboo for a speedy and awesome beta! SPOILERS for "Countdown." The title comes from a Dar Williams song.

Memory was a funny thing, Neal knew. Old wounds tended to scab over and heal whether you wanted them to or not, unless anger or resentment made them fester. He barely remembered anything that’d happened the afternoon he almost shot Garret Fowler, and the hours after Kate’s death were a gray blur. A lot of prison had blended together, the days there too similar to really distinguish themselves.

He hoped that the past two days would eventually be a merciful blur, too.

It wasn’t really the physical illness he wanted to forget, though he wasn’t eager to remember puking until he cried. No, he thought as he struggled to pull a pair of track pants on without passing out from the pain, it was the _despair_ he didn’t want to remember. The feeling that he had done this to himself, that he deserved every moment of it, that even if someone _had_ been willing to come scrape him off the floor, he wasn’t worth their time and energy. He didn’t want to remember that. Though maybe he should.

He was finally dressed - exhausted, covered in cold sweat, and smelling like vomit - but dressed. He’d called a cab for ten minutes from now, and it was going to take him at least that long to struggle down four flights of stairs.

Just a few weeks ago, Neal reflected as he clung to the banister, he could have called Peter for help. He could’ve asked Diana, too, or Jones, or Mozzie, or June. But he would’ve called Peter . . . and El. Now Peter wasn’t speaking to him, and neither were any of his agents. Mozzie was gone, the treasure with him. As for June . . . Neal had finally confessed the whole story to her in a fit of exhaustion two days after El’s kidnapping, but she hadn’t offered the absolution he’d been looking for. She’d shaken her head. “Nazi loot. Neal, I’m ashamed of you.” She’d barely spoken a word to him since, and considering that he’d been under house arrest in her home the entire time, that had taken some effort.

He couldn’t call El. Of all the people he couldn’t call, she was at the top of the list. She might’ve come - he thought she was perhaps the only one who would - but he couldn’t ask it of her. Not now.

He managed to reach the bottom of the staircase without falling and breaking his neck. He paused to listen; the television was on in the informal sitting room, but dinner was long over and the staff had all left. He could call out to June, he thought. He could tell her, _I’ve been sick for days and I just called a cab to take me to the hospital. Please don’t make me do this alone._ She might take pity on him. But she might not.

His phone buzzed. The cab was here. He drew a deep breath; the anklet was going to activate the moment he left the house. Peter would be furious, but he was past caring. He’d held out longer than he probably should have, hoping he’d get better, and he’d only gotten worse. He didn’t have a choice.

He opened the door and stepped outside. The cab was waiting. He closed the door quietly behind him, stumbled down the front walk and into the backseat. “Where to?” the cabbie asked.

“Roosevelt Hospital, please,” he said, and gritted his teeth at the fresh wave of pain in his stomach. “Quickly.”

***

Tuesday night shifts in the ED were deadly boring. Christie came back from her break not hoping for excitement, precisely - she couldn’t very well wish for the sort of incident that tended to lead to excitement in the ED - but hoping that something would happen to make it worthwhile. So far she’d had one anxious father with his sniffly toddler, a kid who’d cut his hand open trying to slice a bagel, and a woman who’d smashed her finger in the trunk of her car.

To make matters worse, she hadn’t been able to reach Diana at home. Her personal cell had gone straight to voicemail. She’d said she was going to have a quiet night in, but maybe she’d gotten restless and decided to go to the movies.

“Joe, tell me you’ve got something for me,” Christie sighed to the intern on duty.

“Just put this guy in Exam Room A,” Joe replied, handing her a chart. “Think it might be appendicitis.”

She glanced down at the chart, reading through Joe’s notes quickly. “He’s had symptoms for over forty-eight hours?”

Joe nodded. “Yeah. Said he didn’t want to come in.”

“No one ever does,” Christie said, hoping this guy didn’t end up with a ruptured appendix and septicemia for his reluctance. “Order an ultrasound and call down to surgery, see who they’ve got available. If it is appendicitis, I don’t want him sitting around.”

“Sure thing,” Joe said, already reaching for the phone. Christie headed for Exam Room A, then realized she didn’t even know the patient’s name. She glanced down and stopped dead in her tracks.

 _Well, I’ll be damned._

Neal Caffrey in the ED with appendicitis? Christie blinked hard, but the name stayed the same. There couldn’t be that many people with that name in the country, let alone the city.

No wonder he hadn’t wanted to come in.

She turned on her heel and strode back to the nurses’ station. “Hey, Joe,” she said. “In about two minutes, you’re probably going to have the U.S. Marshals and possibly the FBI walk through that door and demand to see Mr. Caffrey in A. Don’t let them through until I tell you to, all right?”

Joe’s eyes widened, but he just nodded. “You got it.”

Christie’s first glimpse of Neal was a little shocking. He was gray and covered in sweat, and at least two days of scraggly beard growth marred his usually perfect face. His hair was lank and greasy, and pain had carved deep lines around his mouth. Christie paused in the threshold to his room and said, “Neal?”

His eyes opened. They were glazed and too bright, and they took just a little too long to focus on her. Christie made a mental note to order him some morphine for the pain. “Christie?” he said, looking up at her in confusion. “What are you doing here?”

“I work here,” she said, closing the door behind her and crossing to stand by his bed. “I’m a physician in the ED. I’d ask what you were doing here,” she added, smiling gently, “but I have your chart. Two days, Neal? You had to be in agony.”

Neal looked away. “How much does Diana tell you about what happens at work?”

“More than she should, sometimes. Especially when she’s upset.”

“So you know why I waited.”

“Yes, but -” Christie broke off as a commotion started up outside. The U.S. Marshals and the FBI, that must be. Neal lifted his head, then wearily let it drop back down on the pillow. “Don’t worry about that for now,” she said. “Is it all right if I lift the blanket and palpate your abdomen?”

Neal nodded. Christie snapped on a pair of gloves and felt her way slowly across Neal’s stomach. His skin was warm through the protective layer of latex, and the muscles below were tense, guarding. “Sorry about this.”

“About what?” Neal asked, just as Christie pressed down on the right-hand side of his abdomen and then released the pressure. Neal gave a short, sharp yelp.

Christie frowned. “Almost definitely appendicitis. We’ll need to get an ultrasound to confirm, but since you’ve already been symptomatic for two days, I want to get you into surgery as soon as possible.”

Neal sighed. “They’re going to think I’m faking it.”

Christie raised her eyebrows. “Neal, not even you can fake appendicitis.”

He shook his head. “Try telling them that,” he said, turning his head toward the door of the room. _Sir_ , Christie heard Joe’s voice, faintly, through the door, _the doctor is examining Mr. Caffrey now. I must insist you wait until she’s finished._

“Well, if that’s the Marshals, then Peter will be right behind them. I’m sure he’ll listen to reason,” Christie said, removing her gloves.

“No,” Neal said dully.

“No, he won’t listen?” Christie said with a frown. “That doesn’t sound like Peter to me.”

“No, he won’t be right behind them. He doesn’t want anything to do with me.” Neal shook his head, his lips tightening in a way that Christie recognized all too well. “It was my fault, what happened to El.” A small, gasping sob escaped him. “I deserve this. I know it sounds crazy -”

“Yes, Neal, it does,” Christie said firmly. “Appendicitis isn’t a punishment, it’s a disease, and nothing you did could have possibly caused it.”

Neal just shook his head, his mouth a tight line. Christie thought about arguing further, but decided against it. This was not a man capable of rational thought. This was a man who’d lost everything he’d held dear, who’d been very ill and on his own for two days, who probably hadn’t slept in all that time, and who was running a fever of a hundred and three. Nothing she said now was going to matter. “Try to get some rest,” she said instead. “I’m going to order you an IV with fluids and painkillers, and I’ll see about that ultrasound.”

“What about the Marshals?” Neal asked in a small voice, glancing toward the door with clear apprehension.

“Oh, don’t you worry,” Christie said, straightening her spine. “You just leave them to me.”

Christie emerged from Neal’s exam room to find Joe and two of the nurses standing in front of the door while a pair of U.S. Marshals built like tanks glowered at them. “Hello, gentlemen. I’m Dr. Brooke. What can I do for you?” she asked mildly, closing the door firmly behind her.

“Ma’am, are you aware that you have a wanted fugitive in that room?” one of the Marshals demanded.

“First of all, it’s _doctor_ , not ma’am, and secondly, what I’m aware of is that I have a patient in that room. He needs an IV, Angie,” she added to one of the nurses, and handed her Neal’s chart with her instructions written on it.

“Then we at least need to secure him,” the other Marshal said.

“By which you mean handcuff him to the bed,” Christie surmised. “No.”

“Ma’am -”

“ _Doctor_.”

“ _Doctor_.” The second Marshal was looking more annoyed by the second. “Neal Caffrey is a flight risk.”

“Not at the moment, he isn’t, and neither of you are going anywhere near him until I speak to -” She broke off at a flurry of commotion by the front doors and caught sight of Diana striding purposefully past the nurses’ station, with Clinton Jones hot on her heels. “Never mind, actually,” she said, allowing herself to relax, fractionally.

“Agent Diana Berrigan, FBI,” Diana said, flashing her badge at the Marshals. “This is Agent Jones. We’re Neal Caffrey’s designated secondary handlers, and we have this situation under control. You can go now.”

The Marshals exchanged a glance. “Agent Berrigan,” the first one began, “we are concerned that Neal Caffrey poses a serious flight risk. Dr. Brooke has not been cooperative in allowing us to secure him.”

“She will cooperate with us,” Diana said, shooting Christie a glance. “Won’t you?”

“Oh, fully,” Christie said with a smile.

“Then we should be fine. The FBI is grateful to the U.S. Marshals for their assistance, but we have it from here, thank you,” Diana said, and with Joe’s help Jones efficiently shepherded the Marshals out of the ED, with amiable but notably vague promises to keep them in the loop.

“Pains in the ass,” Diana said, turning back to Christie. “As though they could keep Caffrey anywhere he didn’t want to be for more than three minutes. What the hell is going on? All I know is that Peter called me twenty minutes ago and said that Caffrey was outside his radius and told me to get Jones and come here.”

Christie frowned. “Is Peter coming?”

Diana blew out a breath. “No, I don’t think so. He’s been very strict about spending his evenings with Elizabeth ever since - since Keller.”

“Right,” Christie said. She stepped aside as Angie appeared with an orderly, allowing them inside Neal’s room to set up his IV. Diana watched them go, her frown deepening. “And you don’t think he’d come if you asked him to?”

“I . . . don’t know,” Diana said slowly. “Why? How bad is it?”

“Hon, you know I can’t tell you. You’ll have to talk to him. But wait a minute or two, they’re just getting him started on an IV.”

Diana crossed her arms over her chest. “That sounds serious.”

Christie shook her head. “You’ll have to talk to him. But, Diana - you can’t upset him.” Diana rolled her eyes. “No, I mean it. He’s very, very sick, and he doesn’t need to be blamed for it.”

“He’s got enough other things to be blamed for,” Diana muttered.

“That’s what I’m talking about, Di.” Christie frowned. “I know you’ve all been angry with him lately, and I don’t blame you. But if I think you’re upsetting him, I won’t think twice before kicking you out, too. He’s my patient and what I say goes, are we clear?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Diana said. “Crystal.”

“Good.” Christie nodded toward the door. “When they’re done in there, you can go in. Be _nice_.”

“I will,” Diana said, clearly nettled. “I am capable, you know.”

Christie softened despite herself. “I do. I have some things to take care of, but I’ll check in on you in a few minutes.”

“Thanks,” Diana said. “And thanks for holding off the Marshals. I’m pretty pissed at Caffrey right now, we all are, but he doesn’t need to be chained to the bed. Even Peter thinks that if he were going to run, he’d have done it already.”

“No problem,” Christie said. “I’ll see you in a bit, okay?” Diana nodded, and Christie went to see about the ultrasound. _Poor Neal_ , she found herself thinking, even as she felt like it was a betrayal of Diana. Still, it was hard to reconcile the conman Diana insisted he was with the very sick man lying back in that bed.

***

Morphine was a wonderful thing, Neal decided. It didn’t just make his stomach hurt less, it made _everything_ hurt less. By the time Nurses Angie and Dale had finished with him, life was fuzzy around the edges, and the pain in his abdomen was a distant, slightly unpleasant annoyance. He let himself relax; Christie would look after him, she’d already scared off the Marshals, and he could just let himself float until they took him into surgery. Maybe when he woke up, Peter would be here.

 _Not likely_ , a little voice whispered. But the morphine had shut it up too, mostly. Neal closed his eyes. He was distantly aware of the door to his room opening, but he was so tired. He hoped that whoever it was would just do what they needed to and leave him alone.

“Caffrey,” a voice said, echoing a bit through the haze. Neal squeezed his eyes shut and turned his face away. “Caffrey,” the voice said again, insistently.

“Neal,” another voice said, more kindly. Neal sighed and opened his eyes. Jones and Diana looked back at him, one on either side of his bed. Jones had been the kind voice, he thought; he looked worried. Diana had been the other one; she looked worried and kinda pissed.

“Jesus, Caffrey, you look like shit,” she said. “What’s the matter with you?”

“Thanks, Diana,” he said, longing for the nice, warm floaty-feeling. Diana had managed to chase it away in short order. “Always knew you’d have a great bedside manner.”

“Caffrey, don’t screw me around. You’ve been out sick for two days, and then Jones and I get the call you’re _here_. What the hell is going on?”

“Come on, Neal,” Jones said, seating himself in the bedside chair. “What’d Christie say?”

Rather pettily, Neal considered making Diana leave before he’d tell Jones. Neither of them had had much to do with him the last few weeks, but Jones hadn’t loaded him down with all his paperwork the way Diana had. Jones knew it would be impolitic for him to seem too friendly with Neal just now, and Neal understood that. But Diana was almost as angry with him as Peter, and with considerably less reason.

Diana clearly didn’t like his hesitation. “Caffrey -” she started, taking a step toward the bed.

Neal couldn’t help it. He flinched.

Diana froze, shocked. Neal stared down at his hands, refusing to look at either of them. “Neal,” Diana said, after several moments of silence. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to - look, I’m _worried_ , all right? Obviously you’re very sick, and Christie couldn’t tell me what was wrong.”

“Come on, buddy,” Jones said, and reached over to cover Neal’s hand with his. “You gotta tell us what’s going on.”

It was the first time anyone had touched him in weeks. Neal swallowed. “Appendicitis,” he finally said. “She said she was going to get an ultrasound to confirm it, then they’re going to take me into surgery. She’s worried because I’ve had the symptoms for so long.”

There was a moment of stunned silence. It was, Neal admitted to himself, just a bit satisfying. “Damn,” Jones said. “That sucks.”

Neal managed a weak laugh. “It hasn’t been a lot of fun. It’s better with morphine.”

“I bet,” Diana said. “I’m sorry, Neal. Really sorry.”

He shrugged. “I’ll be all right. It’s not a big deal.”

“It’s _surgery_ ,” she replied. “It’s sort of a big deal.”

Neal shrugged again. Jones seemed to realize that he was still holding Neal’s hand and withdrew his. Neal turned his head away, feeling a little groggy and nauseated. He didn’t want to ask, but he had to know. “Are you going to tell Peter?”

“Yeah,” Diana said. “I’m going to go call him right now.” She hesitated, and Neal could almost feel the look the two of them were exchanging. “Neal, I have to warn you -”

“He isn’t going to come,” Neal said. “I know.” He wanted to ask if Peter might at least talk to him, but he was afraid of the answer.

Diana sighed. “Right. I’ll be back in a bit.”

Neal listened to Diana leave. When he was sure she’d gone, he opened his eyes and looked at Jones. “Clinton,” he managed, then stopped, afraid that he was dangerously close to violating at least a dozen rules of masculinity.

Fortunately, Jones seemed to read his mind. “Hey, no worries, Neal,” he said, patting the blankets covering Neal’s knee. “I got nowhere else to be right now.”

Jones was as good as his word. To Neal’s relief, he didn’t try to make him talk, leaving Neal free to slip back into his pleasant morphine-induced fog until a technician and an orderly arrived with the ultrasound machine. Jones stayed with him through that, too, even though there almost wasn’t enough room for all four of them and the machine in the little exam room. Christie returned a few minutes after the technician and orderly left to tell him that the ultrasound had confirmed her diagnosis, and they were going to take him into surgery within the hour. Neal nodded, wordlessly, and closed his eyes again. She said something else to Jones, something about the anklet, but Neal didn’t bother to try and catch it.

He hadn’t quite managed to drift off when Diana returned. He opened his eyes when she leaned against the bed, blinking up at her. “I talked to Peter,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. “He said he might be able to make it over tomorrow before work. He also said he hopes everything goes well and you feel better soon.”

The verbal equivalent of spitting on someone who was on fire. “That’s nice of him,” was all Neal said, closing his eyes again. It was no worse - or better - than he’d expected. He was pretty sure that if he hadn’t been on morphine, it would have hurt him to hear it, but as things stood, he just couldn’t care all that much.

It seemed like only a very short time later that two orderlies came in to help him change into a hospital gown and then take him up for surgery. Christie came to see him before they took him away, and Neal managed to smile at her. She’d been kind to him, and that wasn’t something he took for granted anymore. She said she’d check-in on him tomorrow after her shift ended. Diana unlocked his anklet, and she and Jones wished him luck.

Neal watched the ceiling slide by overhead. He thought about the last time he’d been in a hospital, the night they’d got El back, and the time before that, when Peter had been poisoned. Both times he’d been stuck in the waiting room, waiting anxiously for news. Peter had barely looked at him when he’d come out to tell everyone that El was all right, just badly shaken up. When it’d been Peter who was hurt, El had clutched his hand, her wedding ring digging painfully into his fingers.

It was a relief when the anesthesiologist placed the mask over his face. “Count backwards from ten, Mr. Caffrey,” he said. Neal closed his eyes. _10 . . . 9 . . . 8 . . . 7 . . ._

***

Peter hung up his cell, then stood staring at it in his hand. Neal had appendicitis. It almost didn’t make sense. He’d been out for two days, but Peter hadn’t bothered to call and check on him. He’d thought Neal might be faking it to avoid the tense atmosphere in the office, and Peter had been willing to let it slide. It had been easier - emotionally - without Neal, though Peter suspected they’d have solved the bond forgery case they’d caught in three hours if he’d been there.

“Hon? What’s going on?” El slid her arms around Peter from behind. He turned and hugged her, closing his eyes and breathing in her scent.

“Nothing. “

“Nothing,” she repeated, tilting her head back to look at him. “Code word these days for ‘Neal.’ Something happened earlier, didn’t it?”

Peter shook his head. “It’s not important, hon.”

She put her hand on his chest and stepped back. Regretfully, Peter let his hands drop to her waist. “Peter. I’ve been patient up till now, but it’s been weeks and I’m sick of being treated like a delicate flower. Something bad happened to me, but I’m here, I’m all right. You can still talk to me about your work.”

“I know,” Peter said. “It’s not work, it’s -”

“Neal.”

“Yeah.”

“And why can’t you tell me about Neal?”

Peter sighed. “Do we have to talk about this?”

“Yes, I think we do.” El turned and walked away. Peter sighed and followed her back into the living room, where she sat down on the sofa, turned off the television, and patted the space beside her. Peter sat; Satchmo wandered over and placed his head on Peter’s knee, gazing up at him dolefully until Peter rubbed behind his ears. “Now,” El said, pulling her feet up onto the sofa and tucking them beneath her, “tell me why you can’t talk to me about Neal.”

Peter looked studiously down at his hand, scratching behind Satch’s ears. He didn’t dare lie, not about this; she’d sense it immediately and be furious. “You shouldn’t have to share me. For years now,” he said, looking up at her, “you’ve shared me with Neal, first when I was chasing him and then after he came to work with me. I’ve never given you as much of my time as I should, I’ve never given you as much of my attention as I should, and that stops now. I promised you that it would, El.” He didn’t even know if she remembered; she’d been pretty groggy at the time. But he _had_ promised, and he meant to keep that promise.

El smiled at him and reached out to cup his face in her hand. “Sweetie, it means a lot to me that you promised that, and it means a lot that you’ve been trying so hard. I love having you home at six-thirty every night. But Neal’s your friend, and -”

“Is he?” Peter demanded. “Is he my friend? He lied to me, El. I can’t prove it, but I know he did. He lied to me, and you got hurt.”

“It wasn’t his fault, Peter. Keller kidnapped me, not Neal.”

“And he’d never have done it if Neal hadn’t stolen the treasure.” Peter shook his head. “I can’t forgive him. Not now. Maybe not ever.”

“Okay,” El said, very quietly. “But you’re still his handler, aren’t you? That means you have certain responsibilities to him.” Peter nodded, not looking at her. “It’s okay if those responsibilities take you away from me sometimes. I like Neal. I always have. I think he’s made some terrible choices, but he has to be allowed to make amends and move on, or he’ll never learn _how_.”

Peter raised his head and looked at her. “God, El. You’re so much better than I am.”

She shook her head. “In this case, I think it’s easier for me to be forgiving. Now tell me. What’s going on?”

Peter sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Neal’s been out sick for a couple of days. He said it was the stomach flu, but I thought he was faking it. Things at the office have been unpleasant for him, and I thought maybe he needed a couple days away. Then the Marshals called me and said he’d left June’s house and ended up at a hospital. I sent Diana and Jones down there to find out what was going on.”

El was frowning worriedly. “And?”

Peter looked at her. “He has appendicitis, El. He’s had it for two days. They’re taking him in for surgery.”

El covered her mouth with her hand. “Oh God. Poor Neal. I’ll get my coat -” She started to stand.

Peter reached out and caught her by the hand. “No, El. I don’t want to go down there. Diana and Jones are with him, and Diana’s partner happened to be working in the ED when Neal came in. He’s in good hands. He doesn’t need us with him, too.”

El pulled her hand away and crossed her arms over her chest. “And it never occurred to you that maybe he _wants_ us with him?”

Peter shook his head. “I told Diana I’d come by in the morning if I had time.”

“Peter -”

“Don’t, El. Please.” Peter rubbed a hand over his face. “Someone else can look after Neal Caffrey tonight. All I really want,” he said, standing to put his arms around her, “is to be here, with you.”

El studied his face silently. “All right,” she said at last. “If you’re sure.”

“I am,” he said, and kissed her. “I’m absolutely sure.”

It almost wasn’t a lie. Peter had his phone, after all, and Diana would text him if there was anything he needed to know. An appendectomy was completely routine. Neal would be fine without him.

Neither of them mentioned Neal again as they got ready for bed. Peter let Satchmo out one last time, then locked up and set the new high-security alarm he’d purchased the day they’d got El back. He’d hoped it would help them both sleep more soundly, but that didn’t seem to be the case, at least not for him. In the weeks since Keller had taken El, he’d found himself startling awake multiple times a night at nothing. He’d had his fair share of nightmares, too, the type that made him wake El up just to hear her voice, to hold her and reassure himself that he _had_ gotten her back.

Tonight was no exception. Peter slept badly, one nightmare segueing seamlessly into another. But this time, instead of dreaming about losing El, he dreamed about surgeries gone wrong, about Neal lying unconscious and ill in his apartment for days, and, finally, about allowing Keller to have Neal in exchange for El. _You know I’m gonna kill him, right?_ Keller taunted him. _You know you’re sending him to his death so you can have your pretty wife back._

Neal didn’t argue, didn’t plead, didn’t do anything to save himself. He looked at Peter once and then simply went, without a single word.

“Peter, Peter, wake up!”

Peter sat up, instinctively clutching at El. “Shhh, honey, it’s okay,” El murmured, stroking his hair. It wasn’t right, Peter thought, not for the first time. It wasn’t _right_ that she spent so much time comforting him, when it should be the other way around. But it helped her to help him, she said, and so he didn’t try to hide it from her.

“No, it’s not,” he said, swiping at the moisture on his face. “It’s not okay. Oh God, _Neal_ . . .”

“Shhh, Neal’s okay. Diana just texted you.”

Peter stared at her blankly. “What?”

“Diana texted you.” She handed him his phone. “It woke me up.”

 _Neal’s out of surgery_ , her message read. Peter sagged in relief. _It went well, and he’s in Recovery. Jones and I are heading home to get some sleep._

“There, see?” El stroked his hair again. “Everyone’s all right. We’ll go down there tomorrow morning.”

Peter looked at her. “We? El, you don’t have to -”

“Yes, I do. For a lot of reasons. Neal needs to know I don’t blame him for what happened, and frankly - well, sweetie, I love you, but your approach to highly charged emotional situations can be somewhat . . .” El hesitated. “Narrow.”

Peter frowned. “Meaning?”

“Meaning that now is not the time to tell him to cowboy up.” She tapped him lightly on the tip of his nose. “I want to come with you. Okay?”

He nodded. “If you want to. You don’t have to. It’s - it’d be okay if you did blame Neal, you know.”

She shook her head. “But I don’t, Peter. And you shouldn’t either. Neal is our friend, and friends don’t leave friends alone in the hospital.” She kissed him lightly. “I love you. Can you get back to sleep, do you think?”

He nodded, though he wasn’t sure. He kept seeing that terribly blank look on Neal’s face as Peter traded his life for El’s. But he wasn’t about to tell her that. “Love you, too.”

***

Later, Neal had only dim memories of the hours after his surgery. He had strange, strobe-like flashes of being wheeled down a hallway to a room, where Christie met him. She was wearing jeans and a t-shirt, no white coat, but she smiled and told him everything had gone well. He remembered being very, very tired, and then he didn’t remember much of anything for a while.

When he woke again, it was early morning, and he was in a real hospital room, with a window and TV and a phone on the bedside table. Gray light filtered in through the curtains, and harsher yellow light spilled through the door from the hallway. A nurse was standing at the foot of his bed, making a notation on his chart. Neal must’ve made a noise, because she looked up and smiled. “Ah, there you are, Mr. Caffrey. It’s good to see you awake. I’m Tami, your day nurse.”

Neal cleared his throat. “Everything okay?” he managed, raspily.

“Everything went fine,” she assured him. “Though it’s certainly a good thing you came in when you did.”

Neal nodded. “What now?”

“Now, you rest.” She patted his shoulder. “You’ll be on restricted activity for a few weeks. Your surgeon will come and speak to you about that before we send you home. That should be tomorrow or the day after, provided you have someone to look after you.”

 _Someone to look after you._ “Oh,” Neal said, feeling dull and slow from the morphine drip in his arm. “What if I don’t? Have anyone.”

She looked surprised. “Then we’ll arrange home care for you until you’re back on your feet. But don’t worry about that now, all right? Just get some rest.”

Neal nodded, swallowing. The nurse left, and he leaned his head back, staring out the window at the gray, early morning sky. _Someone to look after you_ , the nurse had said, as though that were a given. As though she simply assumed he was the sort of person who would have that, and not a fucked up conman who’d managed to wreck his life and every friendship he’d had that was worthy of the name.

He wasn’t sure how long he laid there, staring blankly. An orderly brought him broth for breakfast, but he ignored it. He could feel the depression that’d been threatening for weeks - months, if he were honest - settling on him like a thick, stifling blanket. He’d held it together pretty well through El’s kidnapping and Peter’s fury, through June’s disappointment and the subtle bullying at the office, but at that moment he was exhausted and drugged and his reserves were empty. He had no optimism left. He had nothing left at all.

“Neal?” El’s voice said quietly.

Neal looked up in shock, saw her and Peter - _Peter_ \- standing in the doorway of his room, and then realized how he must look. He rubbed ineffectually at the tear tracks on his face, opened his mouth to try and say something, and couldn’t seem to get anything out.

“Hon,” El said after a moment, turning her head to look at Peter, “go get a cup of coffee, all right?”

“I don’t have much time -” Peter started, but Elizabeth stopped him with a hand on his arm and a significant look. “Right,” Peter said. “You want anything?”

“No, I’m fine, thanks.” Peter left, casting one last backward glance over his shoulder, and El crossed to the bed. She dropped her coat into the bedside chair and her purse onto the floor and leaned down to hug him. “Oh sweetie,” she murmured, then pulled back, kissed him on the forehead, and then reached behind her to pull the bedside chair closer to the bed. She sat down and leaned forward on the mattress, both hands holding one of his. “Are you okay? You’re not in pain, are you?”

Neal shook his head. “Just . . . surprised to see you, that’s all,” he managed. “Glad, though.” He swallowed. “I didn’t think you’d come. You or - or Peter.”

“I know, I’m sorry.”

“No, _I’m_ sorry. El, I’m _so sorry_.” And there were the tears again, hot on his face. He hadn’t had the chance to tell her that at the time; Peter had told him to stay away from her. _She doesn’t need to see_ you. He’d thought about sending flowers, but that had just felt trite. Anything but looking her in the eye and saying it had seemed cowardly, and he hadn’t been allowed to do that. “I’m so sorry,” he managed again, “I never wanted -”

“I know, I know,” she said, smoothing his hair back from his forehead. “Shh. God, Neal, I didn’t mean to upset you, if I’d known I wouldn’t have -”

“No, no,” he said, clutching her hand, “please don’t say you wouldn’t have come. I’m so glad you did. I just - I didn’t expect it. I didn’t think . . .”

“Shh, shh,” she said, squeezing his hand. “You’ve had a rough couple of days, haven’t you?”

Neal gave a weak laugh, then winced. “Yeah. You could say that.” He rolled his head to the side, forcing himself to look at her. “Could I have some water?”

“Sure,” she said, reaching for the cup on the bedside tray. It was lukewarm, but at least it was wet. When he was done, she rested a hand on his head, fingernails scratching lightly at his scalp. “You want to talk about it?” she asked softly.

Neal swallowed. “No. Yes.” He shrugged. “There isn’t much to tell. I got sick. Thought it was the stomach flu or food poisoning. I didn’t have anyone to ask for help, so I just kept hoping I’d get better. I didn’t want to call Peter and tell him I needed to leave my radius to go to the hospital, but finally I just . . . I knew something was really wrong.”

El frowned. “What about June, Neal? Couldn’t you ask her?”

Neal closed his eyes. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Nazi loot,” Neal said, opening his eyes. “That breaks certain codes even among us thieves. Byron would’ve never touched it. I think . . . I think it changed me in her eyes. Even though I - El, please believe me, no one does, not Peter, not June, no one, but please believe I didn’t steal the treasure. I didn’t steal the treasure and when Keller took you I’d already decided to stay. Please, please believe me.”

Her eyes were extremely bright. “I believe you, Neal. Hush now, all right?”

“Don’t go.”

The words slipped out before Neal could stop them. He froze, eyes trained on El’s. “I mean -”

“I’m won’t,” she told him. “Yvonne can manage without me, she’s done it often enough lately.” She drew a deep breath. “Do you want to see Peter?”

Neal shook his head. No, he didn’t want to see Peter. Not like this.

El nodded. She kissed him on the forehead, then went out in the hallway. Neal laid back and tried to breathe, to get a hold of himself.

By the time she returned, alone, a few minutes later, he’d been marginally successful. She sat down on the bedside chair again, leaning against the mattress, and slipped her shoes off. She tucked her feet beneath her, grasped Neal’s hand with one of her own, and with the other reached for the remote. “All right, then,” she said. “Let’s put my new-found knowledge of daytime television to work. I think there’s a _Star Trek_ rerun on after _Judge Judy_ . . .”

***

Neal had a painkiller with his bland hospital lunch, and fell asleep shortly after. Elizabeth waited until he was well and truly under, then wrote a note to leave on the bedside table. _Gone out for lunch with Peter_ , it read. _Back soon._

Elizabeth tried not to let what had happened to her change her life. It'd been terrible, but it was over, and it was the thought of how much worse it _could_ have been that haunted her more than anything else. She knew it was the same for Peter, that when he woke shaking in the middle of the night, it was the might-have-been's that tormented him. Keller had been a gentleman in his own strange, psychotic way, though El had never doubted that he'd kill her without any hesitation at all.

But she didn't take the subway anymore. She drove or she took a cab or she walked. She didn't feel safe underground, in the tunnels.

She texted Peter that she was on her way, then flagged down a cab outside the hospital. She checked the cabbie's face, then memorized the number of the cab, just in case. She kept her hand in her bag, near her taser and her cell phone, as she directed him to Federal Plaza.

Once she was inside the cab and they were moving, she felt a little better; she leaned back, relaxing as they inched through thick, Midtown lunch hour traffic, mulling over the nagging problem of Neal.

Her heart ached for him. He was, in so many ways, so very young, and though she knew next to nothing about his life before Peter had started chasing him, she knew enough to suspect that Peter's was only the latest in a long series of abandonments. Somewhere in Neal's past was a mother, whom El suspected Neal had loved very much, and a father who might or might not have been a dirty cop. There was Mozzie, gone now, vanished without a trace. And there was Kate, whom El thought had never really loved Neal the way he had loved her.

And there was Peter. And now, Elizabeth had discovered, there was June.

It saddened El to discover that Neal was estranged from June as well. She'd told herself over the past weeks that even if things were rough for Neal at work, as she knew they must be, at least he had a safe, comforting place to go home to. Safe it might be, relatively speaking, she thought, but if June were as angry with Neal as he'd implied, it was hardly comforting.

The cab pulled up in front of the FBI building, where Peter was waiting on the steps with his hands in his pockets. He jogged down as she climbed out of the car. She paid, the cab pulled away from the curb, and he caught her hand and kissed her. "Hi, hon," he said.

"Hi, hon," she replied, smiling. "You ready?"

"Yup," Peter said, slipping his arm around her. There was a deli two blocks down from the FBI building that they favored, and they started toward it without comment. "How was your morning?"

El was silent, briefly. "Quiet," she said at last.

Peter snorted. "Quiet? Neal? I'd like to see that."

"He'd like to see you," she returned.

“He didn’t this morning, when I had time. I’m not going to keep going back to the hospital, hoping that at some point he feels like seeing me.”

“Peter, that isn’t fair. He never expected us to show, and he was really overwhelmed when we did. He wants to see you, but he’s also afraid of what you’ll say.” Peter didn't reply. “Come on, hon," she said, squeezing his arm. "I know you're angry, but -"

"But nothing," Peter replied, a harsh note in his voice. "Neal made his bed and now he has to lie in it."

"And he has," El said. "Peter, Neal has done nothing but lie in the bed he made for weeks, and it landed him in the hospital."

"Appendicitis landed him in the hospital!"

El shook her head. "Our bodies are connected to our brains. Neal has been under a lot of stress for a long time. Eventually something had to give."

Peter gave a non-committal grunt and opened the door of the deli for her. It was nearing the end of the lunch hour, but it was still crowded inside. El felt the hair on the back of her arms stand up. "You know what I want. I'm going to find us a table," she told Peter, and slipped away.

She found one in the corner, where she could have her back to the wall and see the whole room. Time was, that never would have occurred to her. Time was, she hadn't really thought she had anything to fear.

Peter gave her a look when he saw her, as though he knew exactly what was going through her mind, but he didn't say anything about it. He set the tray down, with her turkey and swiss, his corned beef, and both their drinks and half-sour pickles, and seated himself across from her. "I find it hard to believe that Neal got appendicitis from stress," he said, as though their conversation had never been interrupted.

She shrugged and washed down a bite of sandwich with some iced tea. "Call it what you want, hon. Though I think it's closer to a broken heart."

Peter looked incredulous. "You can't be serious!"

"Neal worked so hard for the life he had here. His friendship with you, with me, and Clinton and Diana, with June - it's all gone. All of it. And yes, he made some bad choices, but he told me - and I believe him - that he didn't steal the treasure."

Peter shook his head. "I wish I could believe that."

"Well, believe what you want," El said, allowing her voice to sharpen. "But Neal was your friend, once, and I don't think there's much he wouldn't give to be your friend again."

Peter was silent. El ate her way steadily through her sandwich and let him mull things over in peace. Sometimes, all Peter needed was time.

"What should I do?" he asked at last.

El sipped her iced tea and sat back. "I'm going back to the hospital this afternoon. You should come pick me up this evening. I will find a convenient reason to leave the room, and the two of you can talk."

Peter shot her a desperate look. "El . . ."

"The words 'cowboy up' will not enter into it," she continued, ignoring him. "You will tell him that as angry as you are, you still care about him. You'll tell him that you're sorry he was alone when he was sick, and that you'd like him to come to our house to recover when he's released from the hospital."

Peter raised his eyebrows. "I would, would I?"

"Yes," El said evenly, "you would."

Peter shook his head. “I wish it were as easy as you make it sound.”

“Well, I wish you weren’t making it harder than it needs to be.”

Peter didn’t seem to have anything to say to that. It was a long time before either of them spoke, and when Elizabeth finally did, it was to ask about Peter’s most recent case. She didn’t know what he was thinking but perhaps, she thought, it was better not to pry. There was only so much she could do for the two of them.

Neal was awake when she got back to the hospital. He was half-sitting up with the TV off, holding his cell phone in his hand and staring at it. "Hey," she said, bending to kiss him on the forehead. "You thinking about using that phone or are you so stoned that it’s just that fascinating?"

Neal grimaced. "I was thinking about calling June."

"That might be a good idea," El said, carefully. "I talked with Peter about him going by the house tonight and picking up a few things for you. He can tell her, but I'm sure she'd rather hear it from you."

Neal shook his head. "I doubt she cares that much. She's barely speaking to me." He rubbed the rounded edge of the phone with his thumb. "I didn't expect that. I knew how angry everyone else would be, but June . . . I always thought she saw me for who I really was. I didn't think -" His voice broke, and he looked away. "I really disappointed her. I disappointed Peter, too, I know, but I was always going to disappoint Peter. When it happened, we both saw it coming." He stared down at the phone for another minute or two, and Elizabeth let him stew. Finally he set it aside and looked at her. "Sorry. Did you have a good lunch?"

"We did," she said. "I think Peter is going to swing by this evening, if it's all right with you." Peter hadn’t agreed to talk to Neal and he certainly hadn’t agreed to ask Neal to stay with them while he recovered, but El still held out hope. It was easier to be angry with someone _in absentia_ than it was when you were face to face with them at their most pathetic.

Neal looked away again. "It's fine with me. But El, Peter has every right to be angry with me."

"I know, sweetie," Elizabeth said, "and honestly, if I thought it was doing him a damn bit of good, I'd let him go on being angry with you. But it isn't. He's miserable. And you're miserable, too."

Neal gave her a wan smile. "Don't let my misery be a deciding factor. I've made a mess out of my life.” He shook his head, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “Such a mess, and I don’t even really know how it happened. I never wanted to leave. I never wanted you to get hurt. I never wanted to hurt Peter."

"Then why did you?" She thought she knew, actually, but she didn't think anyone had talked to him about it since she'd been taken. No one had really talked to him, about anything, since then.

Neal swallowed. "Moz. He and I go back a long way, and . . . I didn't want to hurt him either. But he never asked if it was what I wanted. He assumed. And it wasn't. But I couldn't tell him that, I didn't know how, and the whole time Peter was closing in on us . . ." His eyes were suspiciously bright. "It was awful, El. I hated it. I wouldn't even let myself feel how much I hated it at the time."

"Oh sweetie," El sighed, brushing his fringe back from his face. "It's over now. Things will get better."

"Will they?" he asked, unexpectedly plaintive. "They don't feel like they are. Last night, when they told me I needed surgery, I really wanted to talk to Peter. But I was so afraid of what he'd say to me if I did. I think I broke something, El. And I really appreciate that you're trying to fix it, but I don't think it can be fixed."

"Maybe not," Elizabeth admitted quietly. "Maybe not like it was. But Peter was really worried about you last night, Neal. He wants to talk, he just doesn't know how."

Neal didn't answer. El rubbed her thumb back and forth across his knuckles. "I think I want to sleep," he said at last, in a rough, cracked voice.

Elizabeth nodded. "Do you want me to stay?"

"Yes," he said, not looking at her, "please."

She stayed. It was, she thought, the very least that anyone could do for him at this point.

***

Whatever Elizabeth had said, Neal didn't really expect Peter to talk to him when he came to the hospital that night. He expected a lot of awkwardness, some false pleasantries, and to be told to cowboy up. Peter was clearly indulging Elizabeth on this, and Neal would go along in order to make her happy.

He had not, somehow, anticipated Elizabeth ruthlessly abandoning them three minutes in.

Peter had, Neal suspected; he looked more resigned than surprised when Elizabeth said something vague about needing a caffeine recharge and vanished out the door, leaving the two of them looking anywhere but at each other. Finally, after nearly a minute of excruciating silence, Neal said, "Peter. You don't have to -"

"Oh yeah, I do," Peter said, dropping into the bedside chair. “I'm on orders."

Neal shrugged. "I'll tell her you made an effort. You don't have to do this. I deserve whatever misery you dish out."

 _Damn right you do,_ was the answer Neal expected. He'd heard it four or five times since they'd gotten El back. He had no right to complain. He'd let everyone down and now he got to deal with the consequences. If it was too hard, he could always go back to prison. Once or twice Neal had come very close to saying that maybe it'd be better for everyone if he _did_ go back, but that wasn't something he wanted to say out of spite. Things were bad, but they weren't that bad. Yet.

But this time, Peter didn't give the expected answer.

"Maybe," Peter said instead. "Maybe not, though." He cleared his throat. "I'm sorry I didn't check on you while you were sick. As your handler, if nothing else, I should have."

Neal shrugged. "I probably would've just lied," he said. "Told you I was fine."

"Still. I'm sorry." Neal nodded. "How are you, anyway? You look better than this morning."

"I'm sore, mostly," Neal said. "Tired." Exhausted, actually, despite having slept all day. He felt as though someone had reached inside him and rummaged around heedlessly, put his liver and his kidneys back in the wrong places.

"When are they letting you go?"

"Tomorrow or the next day, they said." Neal's surgeon, when he'd come by on rounds that evening, had reiterated that they wanted him to have someone to look after him for the first couple of days after they let him go. Neal still didn't know what he should do about that, but he'd be damned if he said anything about it to Peter. "Thanks for the stuff, though," he added, referring to the duffel bag of personal items Peter had brought with him. "Did you speak to June?"

"I did," Peter said. "She was surprised, to say the least. And concerned."

Neal raised his eyebrows. "Really?"

"Yes, really," Peter said, sounding faintly exasperated. "Neal, we're mad at you, but that doesn't mean we don't _care_. Though I'm sure it felt that way," he added with a sigh, "when you were sick for two days and no one looked in on you."

"Felt that way before then, too," Neal muttered.

"Yeah, well, I'm not going to apologize for that. You fucked up, Neal, and my wife nearly died. For that you _do_ deserve whatever misery I dish out."

"As I already agreed," Neal said, feeling his temper flare despite his exhaustion. "Peter, I won't bother apologizing again, but believe me when I say that I live very second of every day with the thought of what could have happened to El because of me. And I really am terribly, horribly, deeply sorry for it. I've said so to her, and somehow, I don't know how, she seems to have forgiven me for it. I don't expect you to do the same, though. If someone had taken Kate from me - well, someone did," he said, with a brief, bitter laugh, "and I nearly killed him. So I understand that you can't forgive me."

"God, Neal," Peter said, raking a hand through his hair. "You're not - what you did was nothing like what Fowler did. Is that what you've been telling yourself all this time?"

Neal shrugged. "No. Yes. Not really. More like what you were feeling towards me is what I felt toward Fowler. Sort of, at least."

Peter was silent for a while. "I don't think so. I never . . . I've always known it wasn't your doing. Not really."

"It was, though," Neal said quietly. "If it weren't for me, you'd never have even been on Keller's radar, much less Elizabeth."

Peter shook his head. "That doesn't make his actions your actions. It's false logic. Even I can see that."

Neal looked at him. “Since when? Less than a minute ago, you said -”

“I know, I know!” Peter said, throwing up his hands. “I can _see_ the false logic, I just can’t quite . . .” He shook his head, sighing. “I’m trying, all right? I am. If Elizabeth can forgive you, then I should be able to. But you have to give me time.”

Neal had to swallow twice before he could speak. “I can do that,” he finally said.

“And there are other things that _are_ your responsibility,” Peter added with a sharp look. “You lied to me, Neal. You did, didn't you?"

Neal nodded, looking down at his hands. "I tried not to. And I wasn't lying when I told you I didn't steal the treasure. When you accused me of having done that, at the warehouse that day, I hadn't done anything yet. And then, later -" Neal stopped.

"What?" Peter said.

"I was angry," Neal said, looking him straight in the eye for the first time. "I was pissed as hell at you for having accused me of stealing the treasure after everything we'd been through together. And I thought, _Fuck it_. If you were never going to stop suspecting me, what did it matter what I did? But then I couldn't do it. Couldn't commit to the con."

Peter nodded. "I shouldn't have done that."

"No, you shouldn't have. And I shouldn't have . . ." Neal stopped, shook his head. "There are so many things I shouldn't have done, I don't even know where to begin." Starting with breaking into Peter's house. Neal didn't dare make that confession, not just yet, possibly not ever. He hadn't intended to apologize again, but he couldn't stop himself. "I'm sorry, Peter. I'm so, so sorry."

"I know," Peter said, and perhaps it was only Neal's imagination, but he thought Peter sounded a little choked. "I know you are, and it wasn't just you - something this fucked up takes a committee."

Neal managed a laugh. "Don't underestimate my abilities, Peter. I'm second to none when it comes to screwing up friendships. Mozzie, Alex, Sara, Diana, June, you - I don't know how Elizabeth isn't on that list."

"Because she's a better person than either of us," Peter sighed. He was quiet for a few seconds, and then he said, "She asked me to invite you back to our place for your recovery."

Neal felt his eyes widen. "Peter. I couldn't."

"Wait," Peter said, holding up his hand. "Listen. If you want to come to our place - you're welcome. You are. But if you don't - well, June said she'd have a first floor guest suite fixed up for you, and she'd make sure you were taken care of."

Neal swallowed. "Really? She said that?"

Peter nodded. "It's your choice, all right?"

"Yeah." Neal didn't know what else to say. "Thanks, Peter. I'll think about it."

"Do that," Peter said, and stood. "I'm going to find Elizabeth and head home now. I'll be back to look in on you tomorrow."

Neal nodded. "Peter," he managed, just as Peter was about to leave. Peter turned back and looked at him. "Are - are we going to be okay? _Can_ we be okay?"

Peter glanced away. "I don't know," he said, slowly. He looked back, met Neal's eyes, held them steadily. "Maybe."

***

Monday afternoons in the ED were, if not exciting, then certainly very busy, as all the people who’d put off coming in over the weekend finally flooded the waiting room. Christie finished wrapping up a twelve-year-old’s ankle - sprained in gym class - and sent her and her dad off with instructions on how much Motrin she could take for the pain. Then she headed back to the nurses’ station to check the board; she was supposed to be off at five, and she was hoping to leave on time for once. Diana had made dinner reservations for seven, and she wanted to go home to shower and change before then.

She was perhaps not quite as surprised as she should have been to see Neal Caffrey leaning against the counter of the nurses’ station. Christie slowed, eyeing him critically: he was wearing loose-fitting track-pants and an oversized Le Moyne sweatshirt; his stance was casual, but Christie could tell he was treating himself carefully. He held a single yellow rose in his hand.

The nurse Neal was currently distracting glanced up and caught Christie’s eye. She said something to Neal, who turned and smiled. “Just who I wanted to see,” he said. “I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time.”

“No worse than any other,” Christie said, smiling reflexively in return. She handed the twelve-year-old’s chart off to be filed. “I must say, you’re looking a lot better than when I last saw you.”

Neal’s smile turned a bit rueful. “Feeling a lot better, too. Still sore, but I just saw the doctor for a follow-up, and she said I’m healing well.”

“Good, I’m glad. What brings you down to my neck of the woods?”

Neal looked suddenly a bit - well, if Christie didn’t know better, she’d say he looked _shy._ “I wanted to come by and say thank you.” He held out the yellow rose. Christie felt her eyebrows rise. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t been here that night.”

She accepted the rose but also shook her head. “You were my patient, Neal. It was nothing, really.”

“It wasn’t,” he said. “You probably don’t realize how much it meant to me that you were . . .” He hesitated.

“That I was what?” Christie asked, out of sheer curiosity.

“That you were kind,” he finished, looking embarrassed. “It’s all right,” he added quickly, before she could react. “Things are better now.” He glanced over her shoulder and whatever he saw there made him smile. “Things are a lot better now,” he repeated, as Christie turned and saw Peter Burke striding toward them, white pharmacy bag in hand.

“Is he being distracting?” Peter greeted her.

Christie laughed. “Always.”

“Caffrey, stop being distracting.”

“I can’t help it,” Neal said, eyes a bit too wide to be genuine. “It’s just my natural charm.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “It’s good to see you,” he said to Christie, “but I’d better get this one home.”

She nodded. “I’m glad you’re feeling better, Neal.”

“Me too,” he said. “Thanks again.”

She watched Peter shepherd Neal toward the exit through the waiting area. Neal had seemed sincere when he’d said that things were better, but even Christie knew it was hard to tell the truth from the con with him. She watched as Peter held the door open for Neal and ushered him through with a hand at the small of Neal’s back. The hand drifted to Neal’s shoulder as Peter followed him through and stayed there until the door shut and Christie lost sight of them.

Christie glanced down at the rose in her hand. Yellow roses, she recalled with a smile, signified friendship.

 _Fin._


End file.
